Managing
by Harkpad
Summary: Clint curses the fact that they're a two-man team in Bucharest and it's threatening to drop to zero Fahrenheit today. Sure, Coulson's in a van, but it's a cheap-assed van and the heat keeps crapping out and Phil's been sitting in there for ten hours. - C/C


**A/N: This was a gift-fic for an internet pal who was down for the count the other day. Yes, it's Clint/Coulson! No, it's not explicit! It's fluff and comfort, is all. I appreciate those of you reading my things here - thanks for the recent follows and such. I hope you enjoy this!**

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><p>Clint can hear it in Coulson's voice over the comms, a gravel that makes his normally smooth, commanding voice diminished. Clint thinks Phil should never sound diminished.<p>

"Window for target approaching six hours, Hawkeye," Coulson states, and Clint curses the fact that they're a two-man team in Bucharest and it's threatening to drop to zero Fahrenheit today. Sure, Coulson's in a van, but it's a cheap-assed van and the heat keeps crapping out and Phil's been sitting in there for ten hours. Of course, Clint is on a rooftop overlooking an old apartment building, but he's got hand warmers shoved down his pants and two layers of SHIELD-issue winter gear on. Other than a strip of skin under his goggles, he's okay. No, he's not supposed to shove hand warmers down his pants, but he's past caring.

"You sound a little scratchy there, boss," Clint says quietly.

"I've got a lozenge. Stay focused."

Touchy, too. That's not a good sign. Phil is usually beyond patient with Clint; it's one of the reasons they started working together so much, and then his patience was a major reason they started sleeping together, too. Clint sighs and stands for one more pass around the rooftop before settling back into his post. Another hour passes.

"Window for target approaching five hours, Hawkeye," Coulson says and there's no mistaking the sandpaper quality of his voice now.

"Grab another lozenge, sir. I'll bring you some orange juice when I'm done here."

He doesn't even get a reply this time, so he stands and does another pass. As he's settling down, he spots the car they're watching for. "Target in sight, code four zero Charlie," he whispers.

"Confirmed," Coulson answers. "Kill order seven three delta five, Hawkeye. Get it done and watch your back. I think they sent someone from the apartment to the roof to check for hostiles, if the radio chatter is to be believed."

"Yes, sir," Clint answers, and he means to watch his back, he really does, but first he has to watch the target, and as he draws a bead on the tall, graying tuxedo wearing guy climbing out of the car with his bodyguards, he hears someone come through the roof door. He squeezes off the shot, splitting the bodyguards and nailing the target cleanly in the head, but when he spins to take out whoever's behind him, he's a split-second too late. They get a shot off. It's wide, but it manages to tag him right under his shoulder and he feels pain explode down his right arm.

He manages to keep quiet and he does more than tag the idiot who thought he could get away with two shots on Clint. The goon is dead on the concrete of the roof and Clint's not wasting any time. Coulson's in his ear rattling off coordinates to meet, and Clint doesn't have to be told twice. He ignores the lancing pain in his arm and shoves his rifle in its case and runs. He makes a leap only a circus freak like him could make across the gap between buildings, and the bodyguards from the street burst onto the roof a moment too late.

Clint runs, ignoring the fire in his shoulder, and jumps another crazy gap, but this time he stumbles on the landing. He figures now's a good time to descend to street level. He slides down a fire escape and rounds the corner of the building, looks at the street sign and checks it against the location Coulson gave him and makes two more lefts before he sees the van waiting.

"Get us the fuck out of here," he growls once the doors are shut and he's sprawled on the dirty floor of the van. There's a safe house outside the city that they're headed for, and Clint feels Phil gun the engine to make better time.

"You hit?" Phil asks with a quick glance back at Clint.

"Tagged. Almost armpit. Fucking amateur."

Phil doesn't answer, just focuses on driving, and Clint peels his jacket off slowly, trying to hold in a hiss as he slides it off his arm. Phil sneezes three times in a row as he drives.

"Is it through?" Phil asks, a few minutes later.

Clint is holding a pressure pack to his arm and trying to ignore the throbbing each heartbeat causes. "No, god damn it. You're gonna have to dig it out." He hates getting bullets dug out. He can handle it, but it hurts like a sonofabitch and always leaves him wiped and angry afterward. He's leaning against the metal wall of the van when he starts to shiver. He can't control the ragged sound of his breaths, and Phil looks back again, his brow creased.

"Clint?"

"Just cold. We almost there?" Clint asks. He doesn't want to worry Phil, but the pressure pack is kinda soaked and he's starting to feel like a Popsicle.

"Yeah. Yeah, sit tight." Phil drives and Clint realizes he's coughing into his jacket sleeve to muffle the sound.

"You're getting sick," Clint states. It's good to focus on something else when your shoulder feels like it might fall off.

"Yeah."

Clint can count on one hand the number of times Phil's been sick since they started working together four years ago. The one time that stands out most clearly is when Phil ignored the cold he was getting and they got stranded outside Belarus for three days. Clint hadn't seen cheeks that flushed with fever before. He groaned at the thought of that happening again. It'd be just their luck. "Is there soup at the safe house?" he asks. They could both use the distraction.

"Supposed to be fully stocked."

"That's because we're not supposed to get evac'd until day after tomorrow. Any chance of moving the timetable up?"

"Depends on that tag you took. Only way to move it up is in an emergency."

"You're sick and I have a hole in my shoulder. Sounds like an emergency to me."

"You know SHIELD," Phil says, and then descends into a coughing fit. He sounds phlegmy.

As Phil coughs, Clint closes his eyes for a minute, but suddenly Phil is kneeling next to him, his warm palm pressed against Clint's cheek.

"Clint, hey. Wake up. We need to get you cleaned up," Phil says, and he sounds worried.

"We here?" Clint mumbles, and yeah, the tag is feeling more like a legitimate _wound_ at the moment.

"Yeah, come on. I've cleared the house. We can go in." He stands and offers Clint a hand. Clint takes it gratefully and follows him out of the van. He concentrates very hard on his feet so that he doesn't stumble before he can get inside and warm. He's so fucking cold.

Phil leads him inside, and Clint stands in the small living room and groans. "Oh my god, they gave us a place without heat." It feels just as cold inside as it did in the van. Phil is there, steering him to the bathroom down the hall.

"No, it has heat. It's just been off since the last use. I turned it on. It should be better soon." When he coughs hard enough to bend over and put his hand on the yellow wall of the small bathroom, Clint sighs.

"Fuck, Phil. Dig this fucking lead out of my shoulder so we can _both_ go to bed." He sits down on the edge of the water-stained tub and gingerly pulls the pressure pack off. "Owwww," he mutters as Phil kneels down next to him with the med kit from the cupboard. Thankfully it's fully stocked and has both antibiotics and morphine.

"You think you can stay awake if I give you the morphine first?" Phil says, resting a hand on Clint's thigh.

Clint gets a good look at him and sees dark circles under his eyes and pallid cheeks. He's really annoyed by this situation. He's nothing if not a realist, though, even when all he wants right now is pain meds and to get Phil to bed. "No. Just dig it out first. I'll pass out after." He grips the side of the tub and pulls a shaky breath over clenched teeth.

"Okay. Hold tight," Phil says, and it would be soothing if Phil didn't sound so much like fried garbage.

The process takes three minutes – Clint was counting to distract himself – and Clint's left with his head dropped to his chest, arms shaking, and swallowing bile when Phil's done. He closes his eyes and swallows against the rolling nausea in his stomach.

"Got it, Clint. I've got it," Phil whispers. "Sorry it took so long. Not on top of my game." He presses the needle of antibiotics into Clint's arm and expertly field dresses Clint's wound, packing it tight and clean.

Clint feels a wave of exhaustion wash down both arms and legs and he starts to stand. He needs to get horizontal, now. Phil holds his elbow, which is good because when they get out of the bathroom and are in the hallway, Clint's knees decide to stop working. Phil catches him with a "Shit. Okay. I've got you," and half carries him to the bedroom and awkwardly drops him on the bed before he hurries back to the bathroom and returns with a vial of morphine. He injects it into Clint's arm and he feels the cold flush of the drug through his limbs and it leaves him boneless on the bed.

He sleeps.

He has no idea how long he is out, but when he wakes, he rolls onto his side and feels Phil bundled beside him and breathing loudly through his mouth. Clint sits up gingerly, testing the pain in his shoulder. It's a dull, throbbing ache, but he's able to stand without waking Phil, and he makes his way down the hall to the bathroom to piss and assess the situation. He finds the field kit Phil was using and sighs in relief when he finds the prescription strength ibuprofen. He grabs two of them and heads to the kitchen to get a bottle of water from the refrigerator.

When he gets back to the bedroom to check on Phil, he's shifting and muttering under the covers. He _is_ a crazy-busy sleeper on a normal night; sometimes Clint heads to the couch in their apartment instead of staying in bed and getting kicked and pummeled by Phil's dreams, but the muttering is new. Clint pulls the covers back to check on him and he doesn't like what he sees. Phil is pale and sweaty, and his lips are pursed. Clint feels his forehead with his hand, an inaccurate test, sure, but one that can make him feel better about a situation on a good day.

Not today. Phil is definitely feverish. Fuck. Clint also doesn't know if Phil called in their situation or not, which should definitely happen. Next. What's next? He decides he needs to check Phil's situation and make sure he's had some meds and fluids, so he packs the nightstand with water, Tylenol, and an antihistamine he finds in the med kit before he sits down on the edge of the bed.

He lays his hand on Phil's should and shakes him a little. "Phil, wake up. Phil."

Phil stirs, mumbles, and rolls over onto his stomach.

"Nope," Clint says, "Wake up, Phil. You need meds and water and we need to assess this clusterfuck of a situation. Come on."

Phil groans, rolls back over, and squints up at Clint. "You okay?" he asks in his papery voice, and before Clint can answer, he adds, "You need a sling."

"Yeah, and you need a new throat," Clint says with a grin. Here's Phil with a fever and just waking up and he's telling Clint to take care of himself. Clint feels warmer and safer when Phil's awake and looking after him, that's for sure. "Come on, sit up, okay?"

Phil looks at the nightstand. "Ugh."

"My turn to play doctor," Clint says, and he grabs the thermometer. Phil leans back on the headboard and closes his eyes with a heavy sigh. Clint waits and then looks at the reading. "101.5, shit. You're not messing around, are you?" He gives Phil the Tylenol and a water bottle. "Did you call SHIELD?" he asks as he hands over the antihistamine.

"Yes. Standard routine. They're backed up right now and can't move us up," Phil answers, and then dissolves into a coughing fit so hard that Clint leans over to steady him, but he hisses as it pulls the packing on his shoulder and sends shards of pain through his arm.

"Oww, fuck," he mutters as he sits back.

Phil's cough tapers off and he pulls the blanket snug around his shoulders and Clint can see a shiver run down his body. He looks up at Clint, though, and frowns. "You need to rest, too. And you need a sling."

"You said that already."

"It's true. There's one in the bathroom," Phil answers, and Clint watches him swallow and wince.

"Sore throat, too?"

"Yeah. God. This officially sucks," Phil mutters, taking one more drink of water before burrowing back under the blankets.

Clint watches him fondly. He hates Phil being sick, but the level of adorableness tended to ramp up pretty high when he was. "Can I join you?"

"After you get a sling. I'm serious. You need to immobilize that arm."

"I'm just gonna sleep." He's suddenly exhausted again and Phil is needling him. Of course, that's how it usually works, Phil needling him until he took care of himself, so to be fair that's nothing new.

"Clint. I'm going to stay awake until you come back with a sling, and I really, really don't want to stay awake any longer," Phil says, and his voice is full-on hoarse at this point, and Clint feels kind of bad.

He huffs and stands, and is maybe a little dramatic in his walk out of the room to the bathroom. He finds the sling, adjusts it as tight as it'll go, and heads back to the bedroom. Phil is out cold. Clint sighs and climbs into bed with him, his back to Phil's as he drifts of to sleep.

He wakes to Phil climbing out of bed, not nearly as stealthy as he's trying to be. "You okay?" he asks.

Phil gets to his feet, sways, and says, "I feel like pulverized garbage," and his voice is almost inaudible.

"Awww, Phil," Clint says, and he stands and wraps Phil in a one-armed hug from behind. "I'm sorry you're sick."

"Stupid vans with crappy heat," Phil mumbles, leaning his head back against Clint's good shoulder.

"Stupid SHIELD for making us wait," Clint answers. "Where are you going?"

"Bathroom. Be right back."

Clint kind of follows Phil down the hall to be sure he doesn't drop like a sack of flour the way his pale face is threatening. Phil makes it, shuts the door, and Clint heads to the kitchen. They still have about twenty hours until evac, and they should both probably eat something. He cusses his way through heating some canned soup one-handed, and takes it back to the bedroom when it's warm. Phil is burrowed in the covers again.

"Phil, hey. Come on out. You need some soup, okay?" he calls, setting the cup down on the nightstand. "Plus more meds."

Phil groans and sits up, and Clint tries not to chuckle at the haystack thing his hair is doing, but can't hide a smirk.

"What?" Phil demands.

"Adorable. Sorry. You're adorable," Clint says, and he leans down to put a light kiss on Phil's cheek.

Phil sighs. "You only say that when I'm sick, you know."

Clint hands him the cup of soup. "Sorry, but when you're not sick you're hot, not adorable. I mean," he amends at Phil's glare. "You're really always adorable in that I adore you all the time, but healthy-you is just sexy hot. Can't help it."

Phil just raises an eyebrow and sips the soup.

Clint heads back to the kitchen for his own cup, and drinks it quickly and wanders back to the bedroom. Phil is swallowing more Tylenol.

"You check your temp?" Clint asks.

"100.2."

"Better," Clint says.

Phil nods and then cocks his head. "How long since we put your dressing on?"

Clint blows a breath out and says, "Ten hours or so? Give or take an hour? We've been sleeping."

"Can you bring the supplies in here? I'll change it before I pass out again."

Clint does, and he sits down on the edge of the bed and eases his t-shirt off carefully. He's trying not to wince or make Phil think it's bad. Mostly because it's not bad, just annoying.

Phil frowns and undoes the bandaging. "It's seeping a bit," he says, concentrating hard.

Clint ignores the fact that Phil's hands are shaking a bit. He also can't hold in a quiet 'fuck' as Phil pulls the packing out as gently as he can.

"Sorry. Sorry," Phil mutters, and sets the bloody bandage aside.

Two minutes later he's got it cleaned and packed again, and Clint's breath is starting to get back under control. He hates getting wounds packed. He sits still for a minute before attempting his shirt again. He swallows more Ibuprofen and looks back at Phil, who is leaning back against the headboard with his eyes closed. "You need to wash up."

"I don't think I can get up," he mutters.

Clint feels his forehead again. "You sure it dropped?"

"Yes. I'm just wiped from doing your arm. Sorry."

Clint stands and makes a quick trip to the bathroom and Phil doesn't even notice he's gone. When he picks Phil's hand up and wipes it with a warm washcloth, though, Phil opens his eyes and looks at their hands.

"You have the best hands," he sighs, and offers Clint a weak smile.

Clint just grins and wipes his other hand down before rubbing both with antibacterial gel. "Go back to sleep."

Phil slides back down under the covers and Clint watches him squirm and rustle as he tries to get comfortable. "Sleep with me?" he asks, his voice muffled by the bedspread.

Clint sighs and climbs in behind him. "You're kind of pathetic right now," he whispers and pulls Phil against his side. Clint has to sleep on his back with his arm messed up, but Phil nuzzles against him and sighs contentedly.

"Thanks," he murmurs, and then he falls asleep.

Clint follows. When he wakes a few hours later and Natasha is standing at the foot of their bed with a smug look on her face, he just raises an eyebrow.

"You're early," he says.

"You're both adorable," she answers, and looks at Phil with concern. "He okay?"

"Pretty good cold and cough," Clint answers.

She looks back at him. "You okay?"

"Rookie move on my part and even more rookie move on the other guy's part."

She nods and steps back. "I've got a car outside and we're thirty minutes from a jet. Think you guys can manage?"

Phil is the one who answers, "We always do," from underneath the covers.


End file.
